Fractal Theory
by Clier
Summary: "I only have one thing left to say, Daniel, and that's that I love you. I do. As much as I despise you, as much as I damaged you, I love you. And that's all there is, my boy. That's all there ever was." Sequel to "The Way We Celebrate."


**Author's Note: **

I'M BACK! Holy shit, guys, I'm back. And you probably thought I died. But no, I'm very much alive, and, after much procrastination, I've finally got the sequel to "The Way We Celebrate" up and running. Here's the first part, and just so you know, it took SO LONG TO WRITE. I mean, yeah, I procrastinated a lot, but on top of that, this chapter was an incredible challenge. Also, I sense that my writing style is slowly shifting to something other than what it was before (I've read _The Hours _and _Mrs. Dalloway _in the time since I last posted, and I suspect those influences are to blame). Anyways, I use a lot more commas and parentheses now, and while I'm not sure if that's an entirely good or bad thing, it's just how it's gonna have to be for a little while.

So! On to the sequel. Now, I did not write "The Way We Celebrate" with a sequel in mind, but because it got a pretty positive reception I decided to expand the idea a bit further. There might be some bumps along the road because of that... let's just try to overlook those together. Anyways, updates might be a little slow, but nothing in the way of months. I've even got a lot of the first chapter written already (and if you don't know, that is like SUPER AWESOME for me). Hope you enjoy it! Oh, and yeah, I did the dorky "starting the story with a quote business." But whatever, I feel like this quote really works for the story... and it's also incentive for all of you who haven't read _Einstein's Dreams _to get on that boat as soon as fucking possible-it's probably my favorite book of all time.

**(****OH MY GOD SPOILERS BELOW-SKIP THIS AND READ THE STORY, THEN COME BACK UP HERE AND READ WHEN YOU'RE DONE!****)**

Okay, I don't like end notes, so I needed to put this here. I'm purposefully vague in this prologue, sorry about that. The point of this was not to deliver a lot of details about Danny's life, but to establish him as a damaged individual, living with the scars of what happened in his past. There is also no sex in this story, and Vlad doesn't show up either. Sorry about that, too. But don't worry-this is a story written in reverse, so first chapter will take you back to the time right after "The Way We Celebrate" ends, and Vlad will be there, in all his lovely snarky glory.

******O******

"_Hypothetically, time might be smooth or rough, prickly or silky, hard or soft. But in this world, the texture of time happens to be sticky. Portions of towns become stuck in some moment in history and do not get out. So, too, individual people become stuck in some point in their lives and do not get free…. _

_The tragedy of this world is that no one is happy, whether stuck in a time of pain or of joy. The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone."_

_Alan Lightman, _Einstein's Dreams

**Prologue: Strange Loop**

It is a Thursday; it is deep autumn. It is morning, but barely. Cold rain and a few slick leaves batter the little bedroom window, rattling the glass in its frame and casting mottled light across a warped square of pale carpet. Warm and shrouded in the fuzziness of sleep, two figures lay entwined in the creaky apartment bed, their bodies reduced to indistinct lumps under the comforter. Unbeknownst to them, they are not alone; hovering in the far corner of the room,_ she_ watches them curiously, notices the way the fabric gently rises and falls as they breathe in and out, in and out. She watches as she always does, blending into the shadows of the corner and the fronds of the standing plant they keep there. On this morning the room is quiet, gray, and safely static—here the dawn's usual transience seems permanent, and it occurs to her that if she left for a hundred years, it just might be possible to return to find the room all unchanged; there would be the same dim liquid light spilling from the window, here the same carpet upon the floor, the same plant slowly dying in the corner, the same people sleeping soundly in their bed together, aged not a day older than they are this very moment.

She glances at the alarm clock. It's wedged onto the small side table between a lamp, a book, and the TV remote, and it's red digits read 6:27 am. He must go to work today; in three minutes, the radio will sound, and the subtle magic of these early hours will be shattered. It's a shame, she thinks (they seem so peaceful), but she staves off disappointment, letting the silence wash over her, drinking it in, letting the day guide her. She's had the feeling for a while now, niggling at the back of her mind like a thought almost formed, that the time is close for her to act. It's why she's been following him more closely these past few weeks, haunting him in every sense of the word. She feels it is close, but she can do nothing until it is time. Listening to the rain, she glances at the clock again, waiting, as she has waited for six years, for the sign.

The minutes creep up on them all, and quite suddenly and the radio is blaring, the numbers 6:30 am blinking across the digital face. They seem spiteful, as though they know they are rousing sleepers from their peace and offering nothing in return but a rainy and bitingly cold day. The lumps under the covers stir, temporarily disoriented by the surge of noise, and a man's hand clumsily shoots out from under the covers, fumbling with the clock until the alarm quiets. All is still for a moment, and then the man sits up with a groan, propping himself up with one arm and using his free hand to rub his eyes and brush his dark hair out of his face.

Peering out from behind the fronds of the plant, she studies him intensely, unable to shake the distinct feeling that there's something different about him today. Upon the bed, he sniffs, rubs his eyes again, and yawns, making a groggy scan of the room. He seems normal. But then, quite suddenly, he freezes, and his whole body goes rigid and his face turns pale. The temperature of the room seems to drop about twenty degrees. Slowly, his bright blue eyes travel to her corner, and, much to her horror, rise to meet her own. There is a spark, the briefest moment of recognition (she almost thinks she sees him move, or open his mouth to speak), but in a flash she is gone, out of the apartment and far away, reappearing almost instantaneously high above the city, hidden amidst thick fog and congealing storm clouds.

It takes her a moment to process what has happened. What a shock—after all this time, he can see her again. Well, that was it, she is sure. The fact that he could sense her, that he _recognized _her (for almost certainly he did), that was the sign, and what she's been waiting for all these years. She hugs her arms to her sides, frowns, but then nods. It is time to fulfill the promise she made so long ago, and that means she will have to confront him, and will have to confront him today.

The weather intensifies almost as soon as she's made up her mind. Lightning arcs sideways through the clouds behind her and fierce wind whips at her hair, and the storm itself seems to be nature's protest, as though the whole universe is opposed to the plan. She's usually fearless, but it's hard to ignore the foreboding skies—apprehension washes over her, for opening those old doors will be horrid and painful for the young man, oh yes. She knows how incredibly fragile he still is, even after all this time. She knows he's still in many ways that same abused teenager who's just witnessed his entire world stolen out from beneath him. The scars are still so fresh.

******O******

Danny blinks, flabbergasted and confused, still staring at the plant. He was sure—for a moment he was _absolutely sure_—that he had seen a pair of eyes looking back at him from behind the leaves. And not human eyes, either... or at least not anymore. He was sure he'd seen a ghost.

Keeping his eyes steadfastly pinned to the corner of the room, Danny swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up slowly, careful not to wake Valerie, who he can tell promptly fell back asleep after he turned off the alarm. He makes his way to the plant, sidestepping a discarded shirt and a pair of old shoes along the way. For a instant he's filled with the irrational fear that something terrible is lurking there just out of view, but of course when he reaches the spot there's nothing there at all, nothing but the plant, which his mother had given him as a housewarming gift when he and Valerie moved in together last year. Up this close he can see it's beginning to wilt, and Danny runs a finger along a dry leaf, unable to remember the last time either of them watered it. He frowns at the plant, almost comically upset with it for not being more menacing, or providing anything to really be frightened of. After all, Danny thinks, paranoia is not a great way to start the day. Scared of an ordinary plant (and a dying one at that)—he feels like an idiot, and he scoffs, shaking his head and turning for the bathroom. Deep down, though, he's relieved.

Danny pushes the disturbing thoughts from his mind by turning his full attention to getting ready for work. There's comfort in the routine. He showers, he shaves, he brushes his teeth, he gets dressed (and he remembers to wear his new tie, because he has his interview today and Valerie said the new one looks best with the blue shirt). He takes his medication. Closing the cabinet door behind the pill bottle, Danny gives himself a onceover in the mirror—the clothes make him look capable, professional. And that's good, he thinks, because he really wants this position, and since he's competing for it with people three years younger than himself, he'll need all the help he can get. But he knows he can handle the job (he knows he's ready, now); he's confident, and as Valerie reminded him the night before, that's half the battle already won.

There's a note for him on the refrigerator. Danny doesn't notice it until his piece of toast is almost completely eaten and the pot of coffee nearly finished. Chewing the last bit of his breakfast (they're out of bread; he should pick some up on his way home), Danny slides the paper out from under the magnet and holds it to the counter light to read it. It's from Valerie, of course.

_Danny,_

_I hope you see this before you go; I didn't get home till five this morning so I'll probably be asleep when you leave. BUT, good luck today with the interview—you're going to do great, I just know it! I'm working a double today so I won't be back until late, but call me with the news, okay?_

_ xoxo, V. _

_p.s. Wear your new tie!_

Danny can't help but smile. She's so cute; he likes the way she hooks the bottoms of her "g's" around in sharp little angles. He pours himself a cup of coffee and leans back against the counter, slowly folding the note over and over again in his left hand, lost in thought.

Valerie Gray. They've been dating for four years, and she's been completely, indefatigably good for him, there's no denying it. He'd been drowning in those early days; he'd been the closest he'd ever been to insanity, to bringing it all to and end (He had had a plan. He was going to do it), and it was Valerie, Danny knew, Valerie more than anything or anyone else, that had kept him from acting on that impulse.

But even after all this time, he still has trouble believing that she truly loves him; it seems consistently too good to be true. She's kind and charming, witty, perfectly comfortable to be around and laid back, yet powerful and authoritative when she needs to be, and smart as a whip. And that's exactly why when it comes to their relationship Danny feels so suspended in disbelief—four years together, and deep down, he can't bring himself to admit that he deserves her. Because Valerie puts up with him, puts up with him beautifully, and while she'd probably never admit it to his face, Danny knows he's a handful. His moods, his tantrums, his silences, his breakdowns (which are now few and far between but still happen from time to time); she nurses all his insecurities, bears the brunt of his overwhelming bitterness. It must be _exhausting_. So why? Danny drums his fingers along the counter, wondering if for Valerie theirs is a relationship based largely on pity… pity and the fear of what he might do should she leave him. On especially dark days, he's convinced that he'll wake up and find the apartment empty, and Valerie gone for good.

And then there's this; Danny shifts the mug in his hand and unfolds the note to read it again. There are the words, heartfelt, the intent, full of love, but here's the guilt again as well, bubbling up in his throat like bile, because even in this sweet note is the reminder of his complete incompetence—after all, it's his fault Valerie's had to take up working double shifts these past few weeks; he hasn't been able to hold down a steady job in nearly seven months. Money is a constant worry. For Danny it's degrading, beyond humiliating, but because of him it's how they live, and though his parents understand and are always more than willing to offer the two of them whatever they need, Danny can't bear to scrape by on their charity for much longer. For fuck's sake, he's twenty-seven years old.

Danny sets his mug down with a definitive clink. He's going to be late if he doesn't leave soon, and (he glances out the window above the sink just in time to see a bolt of purple-white lightning split the sky in half) getting downtown will be nothing short of absolute hell in this weather. Fiddling with the note, he briefly wonders what to do with it before finally slipping it in his pocket for good luck. He puts on his jacket with a sigh, glares angrily out the window at the storm, and then and quietly works his way back to the bedroom to fish his overcoat and an umbrella from the closet. The standing plant catches his eye, and for a fraction of a second fear and an old curiosity resurface, but Danny doesn't pause, and he's grateful when the moment passes. Really, he doesn't have time for that kind ridiculous shit. Not today, when he's so close to putting himself back together. That part of his life brought him nothing but pain, and is behind him now.

Valerie mumbles something incoherent in her sleep and rolls over under the covers. Danny turns, pulling an arm through his coat and crossing to the side of the bed. He looks down at her, snuggled under the blankets (hair mussed, no makeup, mouth hanging slightly open), and thinks she looks beautiful. Not for the first time, he's overcome with emotion, overwhelmed by how lucky he is to simply have her. He leans down and kisses her lightly on the forehead.

"I love you, babe," he whispers, lovingly brushing a piece of hair from her face. "I love you so much." She stirs, and her eyes flutter open.

"Danny?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Oh no, it's okay." She stretches groggily and rubs the sleep from her eyes. "You leaving? What time is it?"

"Yeah I gotta go." Danny glances at the alarm clock. "It's seven-twenty."

"Oh baby, good luck," she says, pushing herself a bit out of bed and giving him a hug around his middle. "You're gonna do fine." Danny grins nervously, running a hand through his hair.

"Hope so."

"Know so," Valerie corrects, punching him lightly in the chest. "Did you get my note? I put in on the fridge."

"Yeah I got it," Danny says. The hand in his pocket gingerly curls around the tiny paper, but something (something that's just slightly ashamed) keeps him from taking it out and showing her that he's kept it. "Thanks."

"Mmm… good," mumbles Valerie, snuggling into him further. "I thought I might not get a chance to see you before you left. But I did…." One of her hands travels down and lightly squeezes his backside. "Lucky me." Danny chuckles and twists out of her grip.

"Hey, no way, Val, I can't be late today!" Valerie rolls her eyes.

"I can't help it if you look sexy in a suit," she says. She lies back down with her head propped up on her elbow, a teasing grin spreading across her face. Danny scoffs, and looks down at the clock again.

"I gotta go," he says apologetically, motioning helplessly to the door.

"Oh I know… alright then, c'mere." Valerie holds out her arms and he leans into her, surrendering himself to her arms for a moment before pecking her on the cheek and breaking from the hug.

"I'll see you tonight," says Danny, picking up the umbrella and pulling a scarf around his neck, heading for the door.

"I love you, Danny," she answers, and there's such a rich layer of encouragement and conviction in her voice that Danny can't help but feel a small swell of warmth in his heart, which floods though him like a weight off his chest. He turns his head back and winks playfully at her.

"Love you too," he says, and flashes her his most sincere smile, which comes easier than he anticipated. Valerie waves before plopping back down and receding into the blankets, and Danny watches her warmly for just a second before closing the bedroom door, gathering his things, and heading out into the city and into the rain.

******O******

The day is long and undeniably stressful, but two things stand out to Danny as the hours stretch on, poking weird holes in his fabric of normality and keeping even the most routine of tasks augmented by an almost dizzying strangeness. The first thing Danny notices is an inexplicable newfound confidence, which had started that morning when Valerie told him she loved him. He had felt it then, felt spurred on and bolstered by what he was certain could be nothing but her pure sincerity, but Danny had fully expected that the feeling would dissipate quickly, and slip as easily from him as a leaf swept by rushing rainwater through a storm grate and into the sewers below his feet.

It doesn't. It remains, starting slow but seeming to Danny only to grow stronger as the day wears on. He's not sure why, or how, but today he finds he can look people in the face. A man passing him in the street, a woman getting into a taxi; he even smiles at a young girl sitting with her mother on the subway, and laughs when she waves back at him gleefully in a burst of childish enthusiasm. People (the whole world, in fact) seem manageable today, and not nearly so intimidating. For once, Danny feels he won't cave under the pressure of mere existence.

The fear of seeing some shade of disgust or condemnation reflected in others' eyes is mitigated, so much so that by the time Danny reaches his destination downtown he's able to chat offhandedly about the weather with another passenger in the elevator, and exchange pleasantries with the receptionist when he checks in on the eighth floor. He even flashes the mousy-haired woman a grin as he sits waiting the small room adjacent to her desk, and it must have been a particularly dashing one, for she starts when he catches her eye and quickly turns back down to her work, beginning to type away furiously with an equally furious blush rising in her cheeks. What an odd, almost ethereal freedom, Danny thinks, knowing he can do something like that. It's exhilarating, and almost frightening in its suddenness and intensity. It's a familiar freedom, too—Danny feels more like his old self this day than he has in years, than he has since… well, since it all began.

The confidence carries into the interview. Danny sits down with his interviewer, a broad-shouldered redheaded man with a round, ruddy face, and (to his great surprise) does well from the start. He remembers to do all the right things—he shakes the man's hand, looks him in the eye, asks all the right questions—and none of it seems strained. He's honest about his professional past (though of course the interviewer is polite enough not to ask too much), and even that comes without much effort. Danny jokes, he smiles, he sounds like he knows what he's talking about, and when it's all over, the interviewer seems impressed. He sees Danny out of his office and tells him they'll contact him when they've made their decision, but something about the kindly, between-you-and-me way he says it lets Danny know that he's got the job, or that at least his chances are very, very good.

The second thing Danny notices that day, stranger still than his newfound confidence, is the sneaking suspicion that he's being watched. The feeling follows him throughout the day, waxing and waning at odd intervals. It's erratic; one moment he's fine, the next he's peering over his shoulder, hoping to catch the pair of eyes he's sure is lurking there. Danny supposes it's nothing more than another bout of paranoia—he still has them; after all, he woke up this morning believing his plant was haunted. His confidence lessens the worry, and yet, the unsettling feeling only grows more powerful as the day progresses, and takes more and more effort to ignore.

******O******

Waiting in the subway terminal for his train home, Danny is so excited by his successful interview that he decides to call Valerie. He wants to hear her voice, and, though it's a bit like a child turning to its mother for praise, he wants her to know he's done well. Danny reaches into his pocket for his phone, but as he withdraws his hand Valerie's note (still folded up into a small square) accidentally tumbles out and onto the concrete ground. Swearing softly, Danny bends down to retrieve it, but before he can it's blown out of reach by a gust of icy wind that ruffles his hair and chills him to the bone.

Danny freezes, halfway bent over. He's only partly aware of the note as it's swept off the platform and lost forever in the crooks and crevices of the tracks. Slowly, he rises upright again, watches his breath crystallize before him into puffs of ice. He glances carefully around, but no one else on the busy platform seems to have noticed the extreme drop in temperature. Not that they would; they're ordinary—they can't sense ghosts. This is it, then: the cause of his paranoia uncovered. Whatever's been following him is here now, so close he's sure he could reach out and touch it were the thing tangible.

For Danny, the presence in and of itself isn't so odd; in fact, the city is full of ghosts. He'll see them from time to time, lost, stranded, wandering the streets. Sometimes, if they're cogent enough to recognize his unique powers, they reveal themselves to him unprovoked. But this spirit is different. It's powerful, and eerily familiar. It is without a doubt the presence he'd sensed in his bedroom that morning (so he wasn't being paranoid after all), but the familiarity goes deeper than that. It's as if… as if he _knows _this ghost, and simply can't remember it, like a person whose face he recognizes but whose name and relationship to himself evade recollection.

"Show yourself," Danny whispers quietly, thinking the words more than speaking them, willing the spirit to hear. There's a moment of silence, and then the ghost speaks.

_Not here_, it answers deep inside his head. It's a female voice, sultry and low and very close, but also distorted, as if spoken through several panes of glass. And it's so _familiar_—damn, why can't he remember?

"You're the one who's been following me, aren't you?" hisses Danny. He looks around to make sure his whisperings aren't attracting any attention, and slowly works his way back to the corner of the platform, away from the crowds. If only the ghost would speak just a bit more; he's sure if it does the memory of it he knows must be locked somewhere deep in his subconscious will unfold, and he'll know just what he's dealing with.

_Yes_, answers the ghost. _I am. _

"The one in my bedroom this morning?"

_Yes._

"Why? Who are you?"

_Not here,_ answers the ghost again. _Not here, Danny_. Danny blinks. A wave of déjà vu washes over him when the ghost mentions his name.

"What do you want?" There's a pause, as though the ghost is contemplating its answer carefully.

_To talk_, it finally answers. Another pause. _I have something for you, Danny. Something I have to give you. _

"But not here," says Danny darkly, glancing up towards the concrete ceiling, where he can sense the heart of the presence is hovering. "Right?"

_ No. Not here._

"Then where?"

_Follow me._

A second great gust of cold air that only Danny can feel whistles through the platform, and the ghost flies up through the layers of metal and concrete that comprise the street and into the city above. Huddled in the subway corner, Danny swallows, eyes still pinned to the ceiling. His heart is pounding, and his mind is at war. Part of him wants nothing to do with the ghost, wants nothing more than to return home and celebrate his day with Valerie. As if on cue, his train pulls into the station with a screech and the doors pull open, as if beckoning him back to safety and normality. The crowds begin to filter in and out through the doors, and Danny almost steps forward with them. But something pulls him back, and as he watches more and more passengers board the train, he knows he can't abandon the ghost. The tantalizing mystery of it is too compelling to let go, even if the thought of what memories it may dredge up fills him with dread.

The doors of the train slide shut.

"Dammit," grumbles Danny, rubbing his temples with the hand not holding his briefcase. "God dammit. I can't believe this." But he's already gathered his things to his sides, and stepped back into the shadows and invisibility. He rises slowly, passing up through the ceiling, the street, and several cars as they navigate through a busy intersection.

The wind catches Danny off guard almost immediately. A small yelp of surprise escapes him as his legs are swung up above his head and his whole body is twisted upside down. It's by luck alone that manages to hang on to his briefcase and umbrella. He rights himself with an embarrassed harrumph (he's invisible, but still)—he's forgotten how challenging it can be to fly on windy days. But it doesn't take long before he's got the hang of it again, and he rises quickly, up past all but the highest buildings, until he's just below the line of dark clouds hanging ominously overhead.

"Where are you?" he whispers, scanning the skyline for any sign of the ghost.

_Right here. _Danny follows the voice to a point about twenty feet down and to his right. _Come with me, _it says, and at once it's off, it's ghostly after-image fluid and just barely visible, like the glint of a fish refracted in a running river.

Danny has no choice but to chase it. It's energy is difficult to pinpoint in the static charge left over from the morning's storm, but he manages, and follows the ghost around (and through) several buildings and finally away from the busy downtown sector. The trip is wild, fast, and full of sharp turns and dives, but it's short, and Danny barely has time to wonder where they're going before the ghost descends, clearing several hundred feet quickly and disappearing into a dense clump of trees. Danny follows, touching down gently on the ground, glancing about to make sure he's alone, and resolidifying. Only then does he look around to see just where the ghost has led him.

To his surprise, they're in a park. It's a few miles from downtown, located just outside the city proper but before the start of the suburbs, in a small strip of land filled with old houses and old money. Danny remembers coming here once or twice with Valerie when they first moved to the city, and when she urged him that getting some fresh air would do him good. He recalls that the park was small but pretty, popular with couples and runners for its trails and scenic views… though he doubts it's popular with anyone today; the whole landscape looks ragged and gray in the wake of the storm, and though the rain has stopped the weather has turned windy and bitterly cold, so much so that Danny now hastens to pull his scarf and coat up around his neck.

He can sense the ghost nearby. Shivering, Danny makes his way to the source of the energy, stepping over several large branches that must have fallen during the storm. He finds it hovering over a small dirt path, next to a park bench still soaked from the rain. He can see the soft greenish glow emanating from its center, and in the heavy shadows of the trees he can almost make out its faint outline. Its face (or what he guesses must be its face) is trained right at him.

"So here we are," says Danny, motioning about and setting his things down on the bench, careful not to break eye contact with the presence. It doesn't seem belligerent, but he's not about to take any chances. "What do you want?"

"Do you remember me?" The voice is spoken now, no longer in his head. Danny frowns, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

"I-what? I… I don't know," he sputters, frustrated and fed up with the game. "You seem familiar. Have we met before?"

"Oh yes," says the ghost. "Many times. But it's been a while since our last encounter… and you've grown up since then."

"What do you mean _grown up?_" hisses Danny. He recoils, body automatically falling back into a defensive stance. "Are you saying that I… that I knew you when I was younger? Back in Amity Park? Who are you?"

"Try to remember, Danny," it—she, for it's most definitely the ghost of a woman—urges. "Calm down, and just _try_."

"I—" Danny starts indignantly, outraged and in no mood to be patronized, but almost as soon as the first word is off his lips, he pauses. Because there's a name there, right on the tip of his tongue. It comes to him all of a sudden, as though a floodlight has been switched on in his head, or a veil pulled away. To his great surprise, now that he has it it feels as though the name (her name) has been there all this time… all that's left now is to say it.

"Desiree."

The word comes out in a great sigh. The moment he speaks the name she fades into view, a hint of a small smile submerged in her features.

"Hello, Danny."

She hovers a couple of feet above the path, and though it's been years, she looks just as Danny remembers her. She must have been beautiful when she was alive—even Danny, who never harbored even a wisp of a fantasy about her (she's dead, after all), can see that. She's built like Valerie, fit but voluptuous, and dressed very close to scandalously in an outfit comprised largely of gold and silver jewelry and several layers of blue and purple silks. Thick black hair cascades down her back in waves, framing her sultry face and blood-red eyes, and her whole body glows with the unearthly light of the afterlife, from the top of her head right down to the last curled tendrils of her ghostly tail. She's breathtaking, even in death, but for Danny (as it always was) it is Desiree's intense sorrow that he finds most striking. Perhaps it is a condition of her curse to exist as an entity of sadness, but whatever the case, her aura is all grief and desolation, and endless waves of it. Even now when she smiles up at Danny the act seems forced, as though joy is a language her soul has lost the ability to speak.

"It's _you_," breathes Danny. There's emphasis on the last word, but Danny's not sure where it comes from; he's still recovering from the shock of seeing Desiree again after all this time. "I… I can't believe it."

"Sorry for the chase," she says, indicating the sky. Her bracelets clink together like chimes when she moves. "But I wanted to talk somewhere we could be alone."

"Why couldn't I remember you?" asks Danny. Something very pointed and reproachful has crept into his tone, because now he's beginning to recall more about Desiree, and about the circumstances of their last encounter. Very little of it is pleasant. "I can remember you fine now," Danny continues, eyes narrowed, "but thirty seconds ago, it was like… well, like—"

"The memory has to come back on its own," says Desiree. Her smile disappears and her eyes harden in reaction to Danny's anger, which she can sense is white-hot and teeming just below the surface. She must be careful with him.

"What do you mean?" spits Danny.

"Just what I said," Desiree shoots back, but she catches herself, remembers who she's dealing with, and reins in her temper. "I couldn't break the spell for you, Danny," she explains. "You had to do that yourself."

"Spell?" blurts Danny, incredulous and beyond annoyed. "What spell? What are you talking about?" He holds up his hands to Desiree, as if to prove to her he's not marked by any kind of magic. "See? I'm fine. I wasn't under any… spell…."

Danny stops talking, stunned, staring at the backs of his outstretched hands. Something deep in his mind has just clicked into place, and he's not sure if it's the last bit of magic wearing off, but it's something that should have been obvious from the very beginning.

"This is about… _him_, isn't it?" whispers Danny. His voice is suddenly dry and rough, like a husk. "About…" He swallows and screws up his face, as though saying the name is akin to a knife twisting in his gut. And that's just what if feels like to Danny, though he forces himself to say it anyways, if only out of spite. "About _Vlad._" Desiree nods.

"Yes," she says. "I'm here on his behalf."

"Then get away from me," snaps Danny. He stumbles backwards, as though Desiree were suddenly toxic.

"Danny—"

"_No!_" He looks around wildly, as though he can't believe what's going on. "You—you stay away from me. I don't want anything to do with this, or with _him. _No!"

"But Danny—!"

"I can't believe you were spying on me!" he shouts suddenly. Desiree withdraws slightly at the fiery vehemence in his voice. "And for him! For _HIM!_ After everything he did, and you would help him? You stupid heartless bitch—how could you?"

"_Danny, please!_"

"You know what he did to me!" Danny screams, and the agony in his voice fills the space between them with an almost tangible sadness. There's a long pause as the weight of Danny's words sinks into them both.

"It's only because of the wish," says Desiree finally. Danny can't help but cringe at the memory of the wishes. "Please believe me, Danny, I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't forced to. I wouldn't be here now if I didn't have to be. It's not my choice."

"Not your choice," Danny parrots, voice dripping with malice. "You think… you think _I_ asked for any of this? You think I _wanted _any of this?"

"Of course not, but—"

"He put a curse on me!" whines Danny, and his voice comes out higher and more frightened than he intended. He claws at his neck, trying only halfway successfully to loosen his tie; it feels as though tiny bugs are crawling up and down his skin underneath his clothes. "I couldn't remember you," he continues, "and it was because of him—he was _in—my—head_, all this time—"

"Only so that you couldn't sense me, so that I could watch you without you knowing," Desiree interrupts, wanting to explain. "And only that so that I would be able to deliver a message," she hurriedly adds, noting the new flare of horror in Danny's eyes. "Nothing more."

"A message?" whimpers Danny. "Wha… what do you mean?"

"I told you I had something for you," says Desiree. "Vlad used his last wish to instruct me to give you this." She extends a hand to him, and with a slight flick of her wrist produces from thin air an envelope between her bejeweled fingers. "He wanted you to have it," she explains, voice low and soft. She bites her lip, as though not sure how to say the next part. "When… when you were ready."

"It's a… a…."

"It's a letter," Desiree finishes. "He wrote it for you the night he…." She pauses again, stumbles around for the kindest way to say it. "He wrote it for you that night, and he left it to me to deliver to you."

"I don't want it." Danny shakes his head and backs away, looking at the letter as though it were the grim face of death itself.

"I have to deliver it, Danny," says Desiree simply. "We don't have a choice—these circumstances are not within our power to control."

"B-b-but I can't," stammers Danny. His legs bump into the bench behind him. "You can't possibly expect me to want _that_." He motions at the letter still in Desiree's hand. "There's no way. I don't want any part of this. I'm leaving," he says. He points threateningly at Desiree. "You stay away from me."

"Don't run from this, Danny," warns Desiree.

"Don't tell me what to do!" cries Danny. "Just who the hell do you think you are, anyways? And I'm not _running!_"

"This will help you," urges Desiree. "Letting this in will help you, I promise."

"Stop it!" For a fraction of a second, Danny's eyes burn green. "I swear to god, I… if you don't stop, I'll tear you apart, Desiree. I will." Desiree sighs, and looks up at him sadly.

"You're not going to fight me, Danny," she murmurs. "We both know you don't do that anymore. You haven't been able to, not since—"

"SHUT UP!" Danny's desperate screech is so loud a flock of blackbirds are roused from a neighboring tree. They scatter into the dark sky with a flurry of agitated squawks, but Danny pays them no mind. "Oh my god," he continues, clutching a fistful of his hair in one hand, "shut up. You stupid bitch… I can't…. Don't make me relive all of this, please. _Please_. You don't know…."

"But I do, Danny," says Desiree, eyes flashing darkly. "I know what it's like to be used. I know what it's like to have your heart broken. To be betrayed. I understand what you're feeling."

"No… not like this," says Danny, voice half moan, half whisper, and even he recognizes that his words sound like the mad ramblings of a crazy person. "Not like this. Not like this."

"Danny, I know this is painful," says Desiree, and though Danny misses it, her voice is so mournful that her very aura seems to quiver with the intensity of it. "But you can't run away from your past forever. You'll lose yourself if you do." She slowly sails forward, and, very carefully, very gently, takes a hold of his hand and places the letter in his palm, closing his fingers over it. "Please, Danny," she whispers. "Don't let this consume you. Don't make the same mistake I did."

She withdraws her hands. Danny blinks, face stark white, staring down at the envelope. If what Desiree says is true, it's six years old, but it looks unnervingly immaculate—it's not creased or crumpled in the slightest—Vlad could have written the thing an hour ago. The paper of the envelope is high quality, thick with a slightly grainy, fibrous texture, and off-white in color. It's not sealed in the back, and is unmarked, or at least Danny thinks it is, until he turns it over with shaking hands and sees it is addressed "_To Daniel_" in Vlad's meticulous handwriting in what seems to be impossibly black ink. To anyone else, it would be nothing but an innocent letter. To Danny, however, it is agony incarnate, and for a moment it feels as though the incredible weight of it in his hand will drag him down to the very center of the earth.

"I have to open it," says Danny dully, more to himself than to Desiree, and really just to say _something _even more than that.

"It's for the best," answers Desiree.

Danny flips the envelope back over and slides the papers out from within, unfolding them slowly. It's only three pages long, though Vlad's handwriting is small. Danny moves mechanically, as if in a daze, as though it is all simply a bad dream from which he just hasn't yet managed to wake up. He finds the first page, and forces his eyes to see the words.

It's almost impossibly hard for Danny to start reading. But after several false starts he begins, and almost immediately he can't stop, eyes slipping from one sentence to the next, page after page, faster and faster. It isn't long before his knees feel weak, and he gropes blindly behind him to feel for the bench, sinking down alongside his briefcase and umbrella before his legs give out from beneath him. Desiree watches silently as he finishes the letter once, blinks, then leafs back for the first page and reads it again. And again. It's only after reading it through three times completely that Danny's hands fall listlessly down into his lap. He looks frail, and hollow, as though he might blow away in the wind as easily as the letter.

"He…." Danny pauses, purses his lips, but can't say the name. He fidgets on the bench as if he's about to stand, but seems to change his mind halfway through the motion and remains seated. "_He_ really wrote this?" he finally asks, breaths rising in little puffs in the chilly autumn air. Desiree nods solemnly, folding her hands neatly before her.

"Yes," she says. Her voice is passive but resolute. Danny leers down at the papers in his hands again, squinting as if trying to see them in some new light.

"_He _wrote this," he murmurs, "back then? The night he... the night he…." Danny's face seems to tense, and once again the words dry up too soon. His hands tighten on the papers in frustration. But Desiree knows what he means.

"Yes," she says again. "He did."

It's not an adequate response, Desiree thinks immediately. It's not enough; she should say something else, should offer him something more. Can't she be comforting rather than stoic and aloof? This moment is such a difficult one, after all (She never read the letter, but she's certain of it's content). Unfortunately, after six years of watching and waiting, she finds that now that the moment is finally upon them, there is very little to say.

"He was a coward," Danny spits. The suddenness of the comment and the utter contempt in his voice take Desiree by surprise. Danny's face grows dark, his eyes flash green, and the air around them seems to thicken with the weight of his rage, coiling into itself like an angry spring. Desiree bites her lip but remains silent.

"He was a _coward_," Danny repeats, louder, and this time there's a desperate kind of fierceness in his voice. "He doesn't deserve…." But his voice catches and he can't finish, and he clutches the papers so hard they begin to crease and tear in his fingers. Around them, the already chilly temperature drops drastically, and Desiree watches with a hint of anxiousness as a small patch of ground underneath Danny's feet quickly freezes over, coating dirt, leaves and gravel in a thin film of white ice. Perhaps, she thinks, it was too soon. Perhaps he wasn't ready after all.

"He doesn't deserve what, Danny?"

"He doesn't deserve _this_," Danny sneers, standing up and taking a step forward, brandishing the letter in Desiree's face. She notices tiny crystals of ice have formed on the papers around his fingers. "He was a sick son of a bitch," continues Danny, enunciating every word, "and he doesn't deserve to… to make me _feel_ like this, after all this time." His voice lowers and grows grim. "Not after what he did. Got it?"

In a flash Danny's eyes sweep up to Desiree, condemning and violent and full of anguish. It's a look of utter contempt, and Desiree can feel the space between them fill with dry electricity; she can almost feel the charge in the air. She knows that he's judging her with that look, hating her for the letter, hating her for delivering it and remaining loyal to the man who ruined him all those years ago, and, above all else, hating the man himself.

"Why are you still here?" Danny bites out, jabbing a finger in her direction. "You've delivered the letter. Your job is done."

What can she say? That she _wants_ to stay? That she feels too involved now to simply fly away and leave him forever? That after six years of looking after Danny, of seeing him at his most vulnerable, his most susceptible, she has developed a tender sense of responsibility and affection for him, like a mother watching after a son? Can she say that? She decides she cannot.

"I'm sorry, Danny," she finally says. "I didn't want to hurt you with this. But I think… I think that knowing all of this will help—"

"GOD DAMMIT!"

With a cry of utter despair Danny swings his body around, and there's a bright flash of green light as he sends a powerful blast of energy surging from his hand into a nearby tree with a sound so deafening it echoes trough the deserted park like a gun shot. For the first time that day, Desiree is truly frightened of the young man. She glances over his shoulder at the tree, and the gaping, splintery hole left in its trunk, spanning at least two feet in diameter. It's blackened around the edges, singed so badly in some places that the wood has actually caught flame.

"He doesn't deserve to get it right after all this time!" shrieks Danny, turning back to Desiree. The letter is still in his free hand. "He doesn't deserve _anything!_"

Desiree looks him nervously in the face, trying to find the words that will comfort him rather than enrage him further. But before she can say anything Danny's anger seems to evaporate all at once, and though he remains standing he seems to somehow crumple, as though it had been the only thing sustaining him.

"Oh God, Desiree," he says finally, "I could've loved him." He moans, holding his head in his hands, clasping the letter in his fingers. For a moment it almost looks as though he's drowning in the papers. "Sometimes I think… if it had never happened, if I had… if I'd never known… I think I could have loved him. God, it makes me _sick_."

"Yes," says Desiree. "I know. And I think he knew that, too."

"Then why?" whispers Danny, and in his voice Desiree recognizes the dull pang of chronic misery her own voice has carried for so long. "Why did he do it? Why did he do any of it?"

"I don't know, Danny."

"Why would he do that to _me?_"

Desiree's voice fails her, and she can only shake her head sadly, watching Danny as he looks down at the letter again and carefully rubs his thumb across the words written there.

"I could have loved him," Danny breathes again, stricken, and the anguish in his voice is sharp enough to draw blood. "I mean… it's possible there was a time when I really… when I actually…."

Unable to finish the sentence, Danny puts a hand over his mouth and bites down on a finger, as if not speaking the words is the only thing keeping the terrible truth at bay. He whimpers, but can't help it—he feels as though his heart has been brutally flayed all over again. Panic creeps up his spine, because it feels regressive; these feelings have the dreadful, suffocating clout of relapse. Because this is his past laid out before him, every torturous, shameful, gut-wrenching second of it, all neatly condensed into Vlad's neat script, and he can't bear to face it, and yet somehow can't bear to look away.

And in that instant, Danny becomes aware of the fact that he is two people at once, both himself, but of different times. He is the Danny of the present, twenty-seven years old, living in this city with Valerie (who loves him, who writes him notes), whose interview today went well and will almost certainly get the job he's so badly desired. But he is also a past Danny, twenty years old and broken, newly betrayed by a man he thought loved him (and who did, but just not in the way Danny thought).

And now that Danny can see that past self, he knows the boy has been living in him all this time, curled up and silent, but there, like a wound festering deep beneath a clean bandage. _That_ boy is the infection, and Danny, present Danny, will have to deal with him now. He will have to look him in the face. But it seems impossible, and how can it not be, because the face is not only his own but the face of someone else as well: the architect, the criminal, the beautifully sick mind, who in Danny's memory is all spindly shadow and cruel laughter and glasses that glint like knives in the firelight.

There's no ignoring either of them now, and Danny feels caught up in that realization, consumed by it. It feels like a fate worse than death. Because now he knows: all this time he thought was recovering he wasn't really healing at all, and that means he's still broken, broken all the way down to his core. And knowing that will help him begin to heal now (that is what Desiree meant, he realizes), but oh god, oh god, how can he even bear to start?

"What to I do now?" Danny asks weakly. It's his mouth that's moving, and yet his voice sounds incredibly far away.

"Go home," says Desiree, her voice full of sorrow. "Go home to those who love you."

Danny's only dimly aware of Desiree as she floats towards him and places an icy hand on his shoulder, and he can't feel it, and she's saying something to him, but he can't hear it the words. _Vlad loved him_. It's all he can think. Here is the letter—that is what it says. Here are all the answers, cruel and horrifying in their simplicity, laid out as clearly as though the man were standing before him and speaking them himself.

Danny shakes his head. It's too much, he thinks, too much for any one person to have to bear—all this time and suffering, only to see now that he never really made any progress. It's not fair. He's still that damaged and betrayed boy, nearly twenty-one, stumbling out of Vlad's mansion and into the night, feeling as though his heart had just been torn violently from his chest. Nothing has changed. And yet here is the way out (he stares down again at the papers in his hands): a letter from Vlad, telling Danny he loved him. He can feel a shift, a pinprick of light at the end of all this suffering that wasn't there before. And yet that light is so far off, so unbearably distant.

"I never got over it," he croaks. "I never escaped him." Desiree hangs her head.

"I'm so sorry, Danny," she murmurs quietly.

Danny shakes his head. It's not fair. It's not _fair_. Spent, he collapses to his knees, and, clutching the papers to his heart, he does something he has not done in six years. He cries.


End file.
